


You and I Were Meant to Get Love Right

by define_serenity



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Husbands, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: He struggles wrangling his keys from his jacket, but as his eyes fall to the hallway floor, he notices a light coming from under the door. Why would Sebastian be home?It’s seven on a Tuesday, and even if Sebastian hadn’t mentioned he’d be late this morning he still wouldn’t have expected him home for at least another two hours. His routine had become predictable that way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **seblaineaffairs** ’ Valentine’s Challenge, day 1: clichéfest.
> 
> Title taken from _Built to Last_ by Mêlée.

_Love conquers all._

—Unknown

 

A hot bath.

A glass of wine.

One chapter of the new crime novel he started last week.

Those, and the salad he bought at the grocery store minutes ago are the only things he wants from whatever’s left of the night. Blaine checks his watch. 7pm.

All in all, it’s not that late, but he’s sore in all the places that don’t particularly seem to care. His calves burn ascending the short set of steps that lead into the apartment building, and he’s never been more thankful he can ride an elevator the rest of the way up—he’s not sure he’d survive another three sets of stairs.  

He struggles wrangling his keys from his jacket, but as his eyes fall to the hallway floor, he notices a light coming from under the door. Had he left it on?

Then, his ears catch onto the music playing inside the loft.

 

_I can’t feel you anymore, Sebastian._

 

And he frowns. Why would Sebastian be home?

It’s seven on a Tuesday, and even if Sebastian hadn’t mentioned he’d be late this morning he still wouldn’t have expected him home for at least another two hours. His routine had become predictable that way.

Blaine pushes through the front door, immediately met with the rich scent of something cooking. Was that lamb stew? How long had Sebastian been home?

“Sebastian?” he calls, taking off his jacket and shoes, dropping his satchel on the floor, and leaving his keys on the small hook next to the coat rack; Sebastian’s keys are already there.

Why did his skin crawl with the sudden dread he’d forgotten an important date?

“Honey?”

Their apartment didn’t have the dimensions that allowed either of them to hide from the other, save for the bathroom—they kept the bedroom separated from the rest of the loft with a large bookcase, but at the right angle, or pushed deep enough into the room, the prying observer could still see straight into it.

“Over here,” sounds Sebastian’s voice, and he appears out of nowhere, straightening waving a match, which had just lit two candles on the dinner table, resting in the silver candle holders his mom got them off their wedding registry. He didn’t realize they still had them.

Finding his eyes across the room, Sebastian smiles and shortens the distance between them, dressed in grey slacks and a gorgeous dark shirt he vaguely recalls buying him for a birthday. He looks stunning, this husband of his, and he feels anything but.

What day is it? It’s neither their birthdays, and he won’t soon forget their anniversary isn’t for another nine months, a long nine months that could take their sweet time coming around, for all he cared.

“Hey, killer.”

His heart weights like lead in his chest.

He hasn’t heard that nickname in a long time.

 

_You’re so far away from me, and I don’t know what to do._

 

“What is all this?” Blaine asks, still at a loss, still confused, and feeling more than a little guilty; the table’s set for two with the good china they only use for special occasions, the lamb stew Sebastian’s mom taught him how to make simmers on the stove, and beneath the scent of the stew he detects something sugary, still baking in the oven. This tends to be his signature move.

“I made us dinner.”

“I can see that.” He sighs, hands at his hips. He seems to recall a conversation not long ago about ‘lording’ things over Sebastian when he means to win an argument; was this his punishment? Would he have to guess what’s going on?

He’s too tired to play games. “Why?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I thought—”

Too late he realizes it’s February 14th, and not some random Tuesday that holds no special meaning. “I forgot,” he says, and closes his eyes for a few brief moments, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d been cooped up in dance rehearsals all day, keeping focused on the work, since it’d become his sole emotional outlet. No one could blame him for that.

“Hey,” hushes Sebastian, conquering yet another few steps, and both his hands land on his face; warm, soft to the touch, unbelievably needed.

His fingers curl around Sebastian’s wrists with the sole purpose of keeping them there, and he opens his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Sebastian’s. How had he ever let it come to this?

 

_You can’t feel me anymore? Fuck, Blaine, what about you?_

 

Since when did he forget Valentine’s Day, or dread their anniversary coming closer, or walk on eggshells around Sebastian? It didn’t seem that long ago they exchanged their vows in that picturesque garden behind the B&B, and Sebastian slipped that silver wedding band around his finger, a perfect match to his. He’d almost been there before with another boy many years before, but with Sebastian there’d been no doubt in his mind he made the right choice.

He still felt that way. Didn’t he?

“You okay?” Sebastian whispers, brushing circles into his cheeks.

No.

No.

No.

None of this has been okay, or easy, for either of them, and it’s so tempting to forget all of that right now, surrender to this moment and use up a little borrowed time where all can be forgiven. All of it would come crashing back tomorrow, the things they said, the things they never do, and everything they’re not saying right now. He’s not okay, and Sebastian’s not okay; they’d be pretending for the sake of some commercial holiday—

“Yeah,” he says. “Just tired.”

Sometimes it’s easier to pretend.

“Hungry?”

He wonders if Sebastian can tell.

He nods, sniffles, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Starving.”

 

_You don’t listen._

 

With that, Sebastian’s hands fall away, and he navigates around the kitchen island to check on the stew and whatever’s baking in the oven. His nimble fingers curl around the switches, and he throws a towel over his shoulder like he’s a chef, used to moving around a kitchen.

His heart beats dully in his ears. Sebastian’s such a great cook and he hardly ever tells him; even the omelets he made for breakfast came with embellishments, extra ingredients he decided on last minute—he could make a career out of it, if he wanted to.

“I thought you had to work.”

“I lied.” Sebastian shrugs, grabbing a knife to start cutting the bread into smaller pieces.

He draws in a shuddery breath, and hates himself for adding it to Sebastian’s list of sins. He wishes he could see tonight for what it is, like a surprise and not some elaborate apology for terrible things they both flung at each other’s heads.

After all this time, that would require rewiring his brain.

“ _Blaine_ ,” follows Sebastian’s voice, like he’d caught him writing it down.

The knife falls to the cutting board.

 

_You can’t keep lording that over me whenever you feel like it._

 

“I wanted to surprise you,” Sebastian says. “Like—”

 _Like he used to_ , he thinks, and the thought washes over him like ice water. Since when does he keep a list of things he perceives as Sebastian’s wrongs? Sebastian’s making an effort; he took time off work to be here with him, made them this beautiful meal to enjoy, and he’s trying to make it into something it’s not.

It’s not wrong to want to apologize. It’s not wrong to want some borrowed time.

God knows he’s tried forcing that on them before.

With that in mind, he retreats. He doesn’t want another fight. It’s Valentine’s Day and his husband’s home, and he should be grateful for that. Sebastian’s trying, at least, and that’s more than he can say for himself.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He blinks a few times. “Let me just—freshen up.”

 

_You’re late._

 

He heads straight for the bathroom, cutting through the bedroom to get there, and closes the door behind him. Looking down at his hands he finds them shaking, and he tears up at the sight of his wedding ring, gleaming its usual untempered silver. When had this happened? Why had he held on so hard to that fight they had three months ago, on their anniversary, and found it so hard to let go?

Maybe because for the first time Sebastian had shouted.

Maybe because Sebastian shared things that’d turned out to be painfully true.

Maybe because, at the end of the day, he hadn’t been the only one at fault, like he thought.

 

_“You’re late.”_

_Sebastian sighs at the accusation, and lowers his briefcase to the floor, pulling his tie free the same way he’d undone his bowtie half an hour ago, sunk onto the couch with little hope that Sebastian would make it in time to share the meal he cooked, and made up his mind that, finally, he wouldn’t let Sebastian get away with this._

_They can no longer avoid their problems or ignore that they don’t make time for each other, or that they don’t talk when they should. Sebastian doesn’t talk about work, or his colleagues, and he rarely asks about his rehearsals anymore. When had that started to go wrong?_

_“I said I would be.”_

_“It’s our anniversary.”_

_“I’m only forty-five minutes late.”_

_He looks up at Sebastian, who appears every bit as exhausted as he feels, and his vision blurs with tears. “So I should expect my husband to be late from now on?”_

_At the sight of his tearful eyes Sebastian sinks onto the couch next to him, reaching a hand for his. “Blaine, what’s wrong?”_

_“I can’t feel you anymore, Sebastian.”_

_At this, his husband frowns._

_“You’re so far away from me, and I don’t know what to do. I can feel you slipping away, and—”_

_Sebastian huffs, and faces away, pulling back his hand. “Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Don’t put this on me.”_

_“You’re not even going to apologize?”_

_“No.” Sebastian stands, shrugging out of his jacket. “I feel like all I ever do is ask for your forgiveness.”_

_He sniffles. “Excuse me?”_

_“I’m always the one who’s sorry,” Sebastian says. “I’m always the one who apologizes, like I’m the only one who ever fucks up._

_“I’ll always be the asshole who slushied you in high school, yeah, but I’ve paid my dues. You can’t keep lording that over me whenever you feel like it._

_“You can’t feel me anymore? Fuck, Blaine, what about you?_

_“Me?” He swallows hard. He’s right here. He’s been right here, all this time, waiting. What’s this about? Why are they talking about things that happened in high school? He forgave Sebastian for what he did long ago._

_“You’re never here, Blaine.”_

_“That’s not true, I—”_

_“When’s the last time we had a night in?” Sebastian turns and looks him in the eye, taking a careful scalpel to everything that’s driven a wedge between them. “When’s the last time you asked me along to one of your parties? When’s the last time you saw any of_ my friends _?”_

_“You have work.”_

_“Would it kill you to_ ask _?”_

_“You’re always—”_

_“YES!” Sebastian shouts, and throws up his arms—his heart jumps at the sudden rise in volume, utter shock travelling down his body at a sound he’s never heard Sebastian make. Sebastian doesn’t shout. He doesn’t lose his cool._

_He sits up and means to go to his husband, but Sebastian turns his back._

_“I’m always working!” he shouts, “I’m working a job I_ hate _and every time I try to talk to you, you decide you don’t want to hear it.”_

 _In his husband’s voice he hears the same tears now spilling freely down his cheeks, and he thinks,_ this can’t be it _. This can’t be the thing that breaks them. They’re both upset and they’re both tired, but it’s their anniversary—can’t they put their differences aside for one night?_

 _“Because I chose this, and I chose wrong, and that’s my fault,” Sebastian says. “But God forbid I come to you,_ my husband _, to talk about it._

_“I don’t talk to you, Blaine, because I can’t. You don’t listen.”_

 

A tear makes its way down his cheek. Nothing got solved that night; they didn’t talk about anything at all, and both went to bed angry and sad, and worn down to the bone. But he doubts either of them slept.

In those three months, neither of them brought it up again.

Sebastian had been right; the things he perceived wrong in his husband were behaviors he displayed all the same—they both worked long and hard hours, and they both expected someone to be home at the end of the day, lavish them with questions or compliments, ask them about their day, and it seemed that no matter how hard they tried, they could never coordinate their schedules. Sebastian worked late when he got out early, and the days Sebastian’s workload lightened his rehearsals ran later than planned. They were both stuck in their own routine and resented the other for theirs.

Maybe, deep down, in a place he’d ignored until Sebastian had brought it up, he did blame Sebastian for making the wrong choice. He’d worked so hard for his college degree, took on shit jobs to make ends meet, and still turned around and took a job his father secured for him. A job he’d come to hate. A job he never asked about because he didn’t approve, and so he couldn’t support it.

Sebastian was right. He’s the bad guy. Husbands are meant to be supportive of each other, that’s the commitment they made two years ago, and he’d clearly lost sight of that. What ever happened to the ‘for better and for worse’ part of his vows?

Blaine rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and splashes some water in his face.

Finding his reflection in the mirror, he makes a new vow. Tonight will be the night they start healing the things they broke, they’ll steal some borrowed time, and tomorrow, when it all comes crashing back they’ll brave the storm and talk. They’ll talk for hours, maybe days, until it’s all out on the table.

He loves Sebastian; his husband, his partner in everything. He won’t let go without a fight. There’s no way he’s giving up on this marriage.

Strengthened in that belief he traces back to the kitchen, and claps his hands together. “What can I do?”

Sebastian lowers the pot of stew down on a coaster on the table, a basket of bread next to it. “All you have to do is pick the wine.”

“Red or white?”

“We’re having lamb.”

Right. Red it is.

He searches through their small collection of wines for a personal favorite of theirs, an Italian one he can never remember the name of, and carries it to the table. It’s the same one they got drunk on that one night during their honeymoon, spilling it on sheets with a thread count so high it still made his head spin.

“Perfect choice.” Sebastian winks, and leans in to push a kiss to his temple; it sticks to his skin longer and deeper than any other has before.

Yes.

They will steal time.

Just for tonight.

Blaine pours each of them a glass, and they sit; Sebastian at the head of the table, he at the corner next to him, and their knees knock together. It’s the most intimate they’ve been in a while; he discounts the nights they’ve spent in each other’s arms, or the mornings lingering in bed unable to keep their hands off each other. Somehow those times don’t match up; now, he feels truly naked, goosebumps rising over his skin as Sebastian raises his glass and makes a toast.

“To us.”

He draws in a breath, and manages a smile. “To stealing time.”

Their glasses clink together, and Sebastian’s eyes linger on him for countless of seconds before he finally sips his wine.

He wonders if Sebastian can tell.

Soon, their plates have filled with lamb stew and they pass the bread between them, and it isn’t hard to wade in the comfort of home, the comfort that is as much Sebastian as it is this place they’ve made their own. He could never do without this, that’s a truth that’s lived inside him for as long as he’s been alive—he needs a place to call his own, a home, and he found that in Sebastian.

“This is so good,” he says around a mouthful. “I still don’t understand how you get the meat so tender.”

“Smythe—”

“—family secret. I know,” he supplies, softly chuckling. “But I’m”—he squints—“sort of family, no?”

For a moment, he fears it touches too close to all he hoped to avoid tonight, but Sebastian merely reaches over for his hand, curling his fingers around his.

“You are my family, Blaine.”

Unable to meet Sebastian’s eye, he draws a finger over his husband’s knuckles, pausing over the ring that shines as brightly as his.

As soon as he does he pulls back his hand. Some family they are. Both of them are so focused on their own lives they’ve lost sight of each other.

“What’s in the oven?”

“Soufflé.”

His eyes narrow on Sebastian’s face, disbelieving. “When did you learn to make soufflé?”

“A few hours ago.”

He chuckles. “Cocky bastard.”

“I’m French.”

“You’re French-adjacent.”

Sebastian snorts into his glass. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” He laughs, and takes a breath, allowing the feeling to sink into his extremities. How is it at all possible that this feels like their first date all over again? Both of them were careful back then too, afraid the wrong word might bring back bad memories from their high school days that no longer bear any mentioning. But they laughed and they danced and they talked.

They always talked, even in high school.

When had that changed?

Somewhere in the silence that takes hold he finds his answer; they’ve grown so cautious around each other, all too aware that the wrong word brings resentment and disappointment that they don’t say anything at all anymore.

If at all possible, that’s worse.

“How was rehearsal?”

“The worst,” he sighs, his calves burning at the mere mention. “I’m pretty sure they just hired me for my vocals.”

“Can’t fault them for that.”

He laughs. Sebastian never likes to hear him say it, so he won’t now, but he’ll have to work his ass off if he means to learn all these routines by opening night—he’s not the best dancer and it’s starting to show, and he fears that if he doesn’t keep up he’ll be replaced sooner rather than later.

“I could use some help.”

Sebastian frowns.

“With some of the dance moves? Like you used to?”

It stopped being his first instinct to ask Sebastian; it hasn’t been since college. He often thinks that’s because it reminds Sebastian there once was a time where he labored at things that actually made him happy. There’s nothing he wants more than for Sebastian to find something like that again; performing, or dancing, or even turning cooking into an outlet. As of now, Sebastian doesn’t have any, and it’s been slowly killing them both.

Sebastian takes a slow sip of his wine, swallowing hard before replacing it on the table, and then still takes too long to answer.

“Yeah, sure,” is what he eventually decides on, but it sounds an awful lot like an empty promise. It breaks his heart to think how Sebastian now consciously avoids chasing his passions, as if it might put things in too stark contrast at work and highlight just how much he hates it there.

It’s a sacrifice he never asked Sebastian to make; not for him, not for them, least of all himself.

Yet it’s one he silently resents.

He pours them both another glass, and they eat in silence for a while, until the silence becomes far too bearable and familiar. Sebastian went through the tremendous effort of making tonight special, the least he can do is reciprocate.

“How was work?” he asks, after taking a generous sip from his wine.

“The same.” Sebastian shrugs, his same practiced answer.

He’ll have none of that.

“So Nancy’s still on your case about the—shipping company?”

“Uhm, no.” Sebastian licks over his teeth, trying to get his bearings in a landscape where his husband’s showing a genuine interest in his job. “We worked everything out. They signed a big contract with us.”

Well. That’s that then. How does he not know more of Sebastian’s colleagues? How can he not recall any of the other accounts Sebastian worked on?

“My dad called.”

He looks up at Sebastian.

“Yeah, he—” Sebastian sits forward, but seems to lose his nerve—his eyes fall to his empty plate, “—wanted to know if we could do dinner sometime. To get to know his fiancé.”

“Do you want to?” He bites the inside of his cheek, aware Sebastian changed the subject before even clueing him in on what he’d meant in the first place. Nevertheless he’s careful discussing his father-in-law with Sebastian; the two have a strained relationship at best, and since his twenty-something fiancée came into the picture it’s gotten worse.

So why on earth would he change the subject to this? What could be worse to Sebastian than bringing up his parents’ divorce?

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, eyes going out of focus. “I mean, if she’s going to be my stepmom—”

Sometimes he wonders if Sebastian took this job to keep the peace with his father, or to keep the man in his life, because he hasn’t forgiven the senior Smythe for leaving his mom the way he did. Sebastian’s mom now lived comfortably in Paris, but she never saw the divorce coming.

“Yeah”—Sebastian snaps to, and breathes in deeply—“I think it’ll be good for us.”

His eyes fall to Sebastian’s ring again.

No.

That’ll never be them.

So what if their relationship isn’t perfect? He’s known unhealthy relationships and unreciprocated feelings and that’s not what either of them committed to two years ago; no matter what hardships befell them they’ve pushed through, together, and if they couldn’t do it together one of them lend the other a helping hand. He’ll never let go; he’ll never betray those vows, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay silent.

“Look”—Sebastian sighs, mistaking his contemplation for that same livable silence—“I know this isn’t what you expected.”

“No, Sebastian, this was—”

His fingers trace up the stem of his wine glass, and their eyes meet for what seems like the first time tonight. How he’s missed those eyes; the way they can peer deep inside him and bring an end to his mind’s chaos; the way they see him like no one has before, and no one else ever will.

“—this was nice.”

A small smile slips across Sebastian’s lips. “Mischief managed.”

He laughs. “And we haven’t even tried the soufflé yet.”

Sebastian chuckles, standing to clear the table.

He sits a little longer with his wine, listening to the hum of some offbeat tune coming from the kitchen while Sebastian fills the dishwasher. He loves that man; that’s as certain as blood runs red through his veins.

After a few minutes he joins Sebastian in the kitchen, who holds his hands tight to the kitchen counter, and he can tell by the set of his shoulders beneath the dark shirt that this hasn’t left them yet, and it will continue to haunt their nights as long as they don’t talk.

“Blaine,” Sebastian whispers, as he pushes a hand up against the small of Sebastian’s back. “You have to give me a little room to move here. I know—” he sighs, “I know we’re struggling, but we can fix this. I know we can.”

Sebastian looks at him sideways. “Just—give me a chance.”

“You’ve asked me that before.”

And it’s not an accusation, not a throwback to another fight, another argument, but an echo through time and space when there wasn’t this love between them—and if he could give Sebastian a chance back then, what couldn’t he do now?

“That—” Sebastian laughs mournfully, “that was a lifetime ago.”

“Both of us still young and naïve.”

Finally, Sebastian turns, and he turns with him, drawing closer to a body that’s part of him, that’s his in so many ways, one that he belongs to in turn. “Do you think we could be that again?”

“Young?” He huffs a smile. “No.”

But there’s no room for joking in Sebastian’s eyes, not those, not there, not now.

A silence lingers for somewhat too long to be comforting, because both of them know they have miles to go to recapture some semblance of the easygoing openness they once shared. They’ve both pointed fingers at each other rather than themselves and that’s taken its toll, it’s set around their routine like cement—they don’t talk about things on purpose now, to maintain a precarious peace.

He answers with a kiss, rising slightly on his toes—his hands cup Sebastian’s face and it’s like he hasn’t held anyone for centuries, that’s how far he’s felt from Sebastian all this time, and that’s how little it took to find it again. All he needed to do was reach out for someone who’d been there all along.

“Talk to me,” he whispers.

Question marks settle in Sebastian’s eyes.

“Like we used to,” he begs. “About anything.”

Sebastian captures his lips again, and they breathe together for countless of moments, too many, because they near trip into the same old pitfalls that would’ve led them straight to the bedroom on other occasions—they both slow down though, and Sebastian makes them two cups of coffee like he used to, adding a dash of Courvoisier. Just because.

Then, they settle on the couch, and Sebastian pulls his legs into his lap, like he used to, and they let the big mugs of coffee warm their hands, just like they used to. They’re not the people they were back then, and that’s not the point—what matters is what they make this into, what they get out of this, and how they move on from this day forward.

Sebastian sets his mug on the coffee table, and sits back, drumming out the same offbeat tune he hummed before.

“I lied about my dad,” he confesses, and rubs over his face, “I mean, he did call but not to ask us out to dinner.”

“I figured.”

Neither of them have any skill pretending.

“You know how my contract’s up in a few months.”

Sebastian doesn’t meet his eye.

He nods. It would’ve been remiss of him to forget. August 12th, the day Sebastian regains his freedom.

“They offered me a new one.”

His heart sinks to his stomach.

It all makes sense now. They may have been talking over dinner, but Sebastian knew better than to ruin that with this news. And, yes, he vowed they’d talk and lay it all out but he won’t hear this, he can’t see Sebastian make the wrong choice all over again and work a job he hates day-in day-out at the expense of his own happiness.

“Another two years.”

“Oh.” He swallows hard. “That’s—”

No.

No.

No.

He can’t handle another two years of this. Tears fill up his eyes. They won’t survive another two years like this—if Sebastian’s not happy, if Sebastian’s not okay, how can _they_ ever be? His eyes close, and he fights the onslaught of tears threatening to spill free. For better, or for worse, he’ll be by Sebastian’s side, but that’s infinitely easier when Sebastian consciously choses better. There are so many opportunities out there waiting for him.

Sebastian folds a hand around one of his. “I already said no.”

His eyes open, and he sits up. “You did that—”

For him, he thinks, did Sebastian do this for him?

No.

He did it _for them_.

“HR wanted to help me find my next challenge, but—” Sebastian shakes his head, picking at the palm of his hand, “I think I’m going to take some time to myself.”

It comes out careful and needy, hesitant even, as if Sebastian’s afraid to even think it, as if he might disapprove, but he’s never loved Sebastian more than he does right now. Not once will it be too late to make different choices, to change their lives for the better, to talk and recapture something so incredibly dear to them both—it seems daunting, but there’s something poetic about being a constant work in progress.

“You’ll find something that makes you happy.”

He’ll help if Sebastian lets him; he’ll sign them up for ridiculous workshops until Sebastian gets back into the swing of things. Because oh, _oh_ , he loves this man for all he’s worth, and he wants nothing more than see him succeed at everything he’s passionate about—that’s the Sebastian Smythe he fell in love with; confident, if not a little cocky, driven and ambitious.

“I have something that makes me happy,” Sebastian says, and catches his eyes in time to watch another tear roll down his cheek. He knows there’s love between them, even through the hardest times, but it’s good to hear. It’s so incredibly good to hear.

“I’m sorry I’ve been—”

“I know,” Sebastian whispers, and draws closer. “Me too.”

Their lips meet in a hot and desperate kiss, and there are hands and limbs everywhere at once. He should’ve fought harder for this from the start; he should’ve listened and talked and laughed when there were things to laugh about.

Their mouths part, and Sebastian rains kisses over his cheek, down his neck, and pushes close enough to crawl inside of him.

“Can I run us a hot bath?”

“Yes,” he breathes, as Sebastian nuzzles against his collarbone. “ _Yes_.”

 

 

 

**\- fin -**

 


End file.
